


Out of Sight

by IuvenesCor



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Gen, ghost!Neal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 14:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IuvenesCor/pseuds/IuvenesCor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He wished he had a choice— he wished hadn’t left them. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>If only he could say, “I’m here.”</em>
</p>
<p> One case ends horribly wrong, and Neal Caffrey is dead-- but he's not completely gone yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Sight

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone. :) It was through the insistence of the brilliant and amazing **truthtakestime** that I have found myself and this, my first full length White Collar fic/one shot, here on AO3. I thank her so much for her support, input, and general being-awesome-ness.
> 
> The two of us have been exchanging one-word prompts for short drabbles. My prompt was Parade, and I had this image of a line of people in front of a casket...and then my angst-loving mind took it from there, expanding my drabble and turning it into this monster. :P Although Triple-T has read this over, it wasn't for a beta read, so any mistakes found are mine and mine alone.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> [Also, disclaimer: I do not own the rights to White Collar. I wish I did, because then that means I would know Matt and Tim and all the cast, and I would be a happy camper. But alas, I have not the genius nor the money, so it's not mine. *sigh*]

It was a parade of bodies passing the closed casket, somber and sad. Some were trying to keep from frowning, afraid to make a depressing place even gloomier; others were trying to make conversation on the sidelines with fake smiles to hide behind. Peter and Elizabeth were sitting in the front, him with his arm around her, both staring ahead at the polished metal capsule as if they could blink and maybe it would disappear. Mozzie, by himself in the back row, did the same. Sara had her head hung down, her hands in her lap; June was sitting few a few seats across from her. Jones, Diana, and Hughes were in the foyer, standing solemnly. 

It was obvious. The atmosphere in the room was not one of complete mourning…it was one of disbelief.

Neal sat atop the casket— or rather, imagined that he was actually in contact with it. Emotion began to overwhelm him as he kept watch over the people who mattered to him. They all missed him; they all came in his honor…

He wished he had a choice— he wished hadn’t left them. 

If only he could say, “I’m here.” 

If only he could give them a sign…but all he’d been able to do was rattle some things if he walked through them. They couldn’t hear him no matter how hard he tried- and he certainly had tried, until he had no strength to scream any more. It wasn’t fair.

He just wanted to tell them all that things would be alright— that they would find a way to life without him. He wanted to thank Peter for all he’d done for him: for being a friend, a brother— a father-figure, even. He wanted to thank Elizabeth for all the kindness she’d shown him, and for every time she welcomed him into her home like he was family. He wanted to tell Mozzie that he’d miss conspiring with him and remind him that he was his most invaluable friend. 

He wanted to let all of the agents at White Collar Crimes know that he appreciated every time they put up with his unconventional methods and admittedly suspicious tendencies. He wanted to give Sara one last kiss and thank her for not shooting him when he broke into her apartment. He wanted to thank June for taking him in and treating him like a prince. He wanted to tell Alex that he’d never forget her help and origami skills.

Truthfully, he wanted to do a lot of things— a lot of things that one can’t do when they’re dead. His inability to do basically _anything_ discouraged him to no end. It made all of his wishes to stay disappear, replaced by wishes to _go_. He couldn’t stand watching any more. The limbo he was in drove him insane, seeing everyone going about their days, partially in sorrow and depression, and partially in denial.

Neal was angry at whoever decided it was a smart idea to leave him like this. Wasn’t he supposed to be in Hell by now anyways? ( _Because, let’s face it_ , he realized, _I’ve never been a saint._ ) Or, at the very least, couldn’t he be in purgatory? He wasn’t sure he believed in either, but his mind decided he’d rather be somewhere…somewhere other than here. 

_Maybe_ , a new thought mused, _this is a sort of punishment_. He admitted to himself that it wouldn’t be much of an upset. He’d done enough things to warrant prison when he was alive— maybe this was payback for having bargained his way out of his sentence. But even then, this was a far too cruel and unusual punishment. Maybe Hell had a waiting list? _No_ , he decided; it was probably big enough for one more con man. Could it be that someone Upstairs had a cruel sense of humor? 

_If so, ha ha, God— very funny_ , he inwardly grumbled.

He looked back towards the foyer to see Alex walk in, not bothering to greet anyone. She lingered in the diminishing procession of mourners, which crawled slowly along. For a moment, it seemed as if she saw him and stared for a good while. But rather, he knew she was seeing _through_ him and examining his picture— the one that was displayed behind him— instead. When she reached the casket, she gently stroked the brushed steel, cheerlessly serene.

Neal considered reaching for her hand, trying what would most likely be another fruitless attempt for contact, but he knew it would be just that. He’d tried to touch others before— his hand had passed through many a shoulder. And— though it did make them look up in mild surprise, shivering so faintly, searching for what (in their close-minded opinions) had probably just been a draft— it hardly concerned them enough to think that a man’s spirit had just tried to give a painfully unfeasible sign.

Alex rummaged through her bag, retrieving a trademark paper flower. She let it drop on the casket’s lid. She closed her eyes, pursed her lips, waited in silence. With one last look at where his body lied, she followed the path of the others before her, letting her hand trail against the length of the morbid container. As her hand passed through his dangling legs, she trembled, just like everyone else had; but, she paid no mind— _just like everyone else had_. Instead of taking a seat, she followed the other aisle back to the lobby, disappearing through the doors. Of course…goodbyes had always been somewhat awkward between the two of them.

Neal shook his head, forlorn and agitated. He ran his hands through his hair, ignoring the fact that his hand had brushed over the wound in his forehead, leaving a smudge of blood—he never thought a ghost could still have blood, but apparently they could— streaking through his hairline. It never stopped bleeding, the entrance hole. This was another part of the ill-humored heavenly prank, he assumed. It didn’t hurt at all, if there was to be an upside to be considered. It was bright and red, never ruddy brown and scabbed like the one he knew his corporeal body had. 

That hole was the reason the casket was closed. Perhaps it was better that way anyways— no one would have to see his face and confirm that it was indeed Neal George Caffrey lying dead in front of them. Maybe they could find a way to deceive their minds and leave themselves wondering why his likeness was shown in pictures scattered about the funeral home. He wished that maybe they would. If they could do so, maybe he wouldn’t find himself tortured at their morose dispositions.

Maybe time would bury the memory as dirt would bury his body.

His eyes were drawn again to Peter. He knew that the older man had guilt— unwarranted guilt— gnawing at him. It didn’t need to be said aloud to be realized; even before Neal visited their house for a moment and watched as Peter blamed himself in front of Elizabeth for everything that happened, it had been obvious. The FBI agent acted as if his name had been painted on the bullet, and that it was therefore his. It also didn’t have to be seen to know that he hadn’t gotten any proper sleep in days. Neal felt guilty for helping drive Peter into personal blame…but the young man didn’t give any apology for having his head in the way of a shot.

_Peter, watch out!_

No one can guess the rules in a firefight.

_BANG._

No one can always know if they have all of the suspects cornered.

_Neal!_

No one can wake up in the morning and know that they’ll become familiar with a twenty-two caliber.

There was no regret. 

The blur of memories was caustic and fresh. Jumbled voices yelling and calling for assistance and demanding that he stay alive. Murmurs of curses and the rumble of an ambulance speeding down the highway. The hustling and bustling of an ER, an authoritative voice proclaiming gunshot trauma to the head. The grating beep of vital sign monitors, and pain. Lots and lots of pain.

No sight, no movement, no voice. Just listening— just hearing voices, some recognizable, some not. Hearing a word that sounded so familiar; yet, in this world of nothing but black and confusion, this word – _coma_ — was still foreign. There was feeling, too…the touch of hands on his, the occasional wet plop of a tear from what he knew had to be the two things in existence that his scattered mind associated with the words _Elizabeth_ and _June_. Their displays of compassion almost managed to distract him from the driving pain.

Then there was the word _Peter_ , the one that described the man who was next to his hospital bed and whose gruff voice cracked every few moments. His words somehow found themselves strung together properly to Neal’s comprehension.

_“Damnit Neal, I told you to stay behind.”_

_“I swear, if you let go on me, I’ll…”_

_“…Just…just hang in there, Neal.”_

Peter had been there the whole of Neal’s last hours. Even though the pain and confusion kept him from understanding, Neal was grateful that this man he _somehow_ knew had loyalty to him. 

It just hurt to remember hearing Peter shout his name as the last thing he would ever hear as one of the living.

And it hurt to look at the man any longer.

~~~

Neal had whisked himself away from the gloom of the funeral home and, without much aim, wandered through the city streets. Souls still in their bodies bumped all around, passing through him with no effort at all. It had been unsettling to travel this way for the first few days— and truthfully, it still was. But Neal had become somewhat accustomed to being seen straight through, existing in what all others knew as life as nothing but a chill, a shiver from the October winds.

His internal (and apparently _eternal_ ) GPS turned his listless wandering into a straight path towards June’s house. He’d been there only once since dying, and the yearning for something quiet and familiar had called to him again. He took a deep breath at the threshold, still not fully thrilled with the idea of walking through the door quite _literally_. Eyes closed, he took his reluctant step forward, and soon he was greeted by the familiarity of the old home.

He smiled sympathetically at Bugsy, who was near the stairs to the upper levels and— as obvious by his whimpering and a brief string of short, rapid barking— could tell that something was amiss. It had been the exact same way with Satchmo too.

If only their humans had the same keen perception as them.

June had left Neal’s room exactly as it was, the last that he had heard. He ascended the stairs and again prepared himself for defying living logic. He passed through the door, leaving its knob rattling in his wake, and he confirmed that everything was indeed as it had been. The thin-stemmed glasses were still on the counter, stained by remnants of the wine he and Mozzie had enjoyed during their last chat. A crumpled tee shirt was sprawled out on his messily made bed. His latest masterpiece-in-progress sat in its easel; his brushes sat in their cleaning cup, simply entreating him to be used again.

In a way, this hurt as well. It wasn’t the pain of sympathy, of wishes for comfort for his friends. It was the pain of pining for what had been. If life was what it _had_ been— what it _should_ have been— Neal would have arrived home just a few hours after now. Maybe he would decide to treat himself to some Cabernet; maybe he would finish his painting. Maybe he would just decide to call it a night and wake up in the morning, alive as ever and happy to be it. He would read the paper, drink some coffee; he would wash his face and comb his hair; he would dress for work and be out the door, preparing to play the hero and stop all his fellow cons and ‘enemies’ of the law in their tracks.

But life was never what it should have been. Now, life wasn’t even anything at all for him. Life was gone— he couldn’t very well carry on with it if he was dead, could he? Spirits couldn’t drink that which was the other sense of the word; ghosts couldn’t paint pictures. Those who took the big sleep couldn’t take a nap. Specters couldn’t go to a job like some nine-to-five worker and act like they had a purpose among the living.

Now Neal knew that he was feeling sorry for himself, and that annoyed him. If he’d stay like this forever (which seemed to be very much the forecast), he’d need to learn to employ apathy to what had been his life. But he didn’t feel like whining, nor did he feel like being indifferent. He just wanted to collapse onto his bed— or rather pretend so…if he actually tried to lay on it, he would land on or even _through_ the floor— and at the very least make believe that he could fall asleep.

He wanted to take a break from death for a moment and pretend that the world was as it was five days ago again.

~~~ 

If Neal could convince himself, he would have explained to his mind that he’d fallen asleep. There might have even been a dream at some point. Then he’d woken up and opened his door, said goodbye to June and went to work.

But a man who lives— or lived— to deceive cannot by fooled easily.

He’d tried to sleep, like many other nights. But sleep doesn’t come easy for the restless dead.

He never opened his door— he dolefully strode _through_ it again.

He didn’t say a word to June— he watched her cook up breakfast, the woman quite oblivious that he stood over her shoulder, and he walked away, livid at Fate for its injustice.

Yet, in all expert lies, there is a kernel of truth. This truth was that he had, in fact, walked to the place that had almost become home— in an uncomfortable, government-stamped sort of way. He had waited for the elevator (and for someone to choose his floor— he didn’t feel like walking) and rode up, experiencing an uncomfortable few moments of being stood right in the middle of as the space was ultimately overcrowded with people. He slipped into the White Collar Crimes headquarters as an agent walked out— he felt more comfortable walking in like a normal, living person. 

It was poignant, yet painful, to see that his desk had hardly been touched, save the deficiency of his unsolved case files. It meant that they had respect (or, perhaps, they simply didn’t know what to do with his things); it also meant that they hadn’t let time move on. He ran his hand through the desk, “sat” down in his chair, and closed his eyes. The familiar humming and murmurings of the office at work was, at the very least, satisfying. 

He should have been there. Not exclusively his spirit, but his body as well. It should have been an ordinary day, crammed by consulting and wise-cracking and charming and drinking low-grade office coffee. Thumbing through files, playing with rubber-band balls, thinking _Wow, life is pretty good right now_ — that’s what he should have been doing. Not clamping his eyelids shut, pretending that everyone knew he was there. Not holding out for some ruby slippers or a time machine or magical potions, crossing his fingers for a phenomenon.

His eyes were beginning to tear, his fists starting to clench. It was too much. For those who couldn’t stand life, there was suicide…but what about those who couldn’t stand _death_? There was nothing. There was helplessness. There was going mad with no escape— a dungeon without a door. No doors, just windows: windows holding you just a hairbreadth away from those you cared for. Eternal glass that would be pummeled by screams that would never be heard.

Neal let his head droop and slammed his fist through his keyboard, growling curses. He couldn’t stand—

_Clack._

His attention was snagged, as was that of the agent nearest his desk.

The keys had _moved._

The agent was befuddled by the ambiguous distraction and drew his thoughts back to his files, but Neal was curious. He again swatted his hand through the keyboard, and the row of letters _clack_ ed again.

It was just like the doorknobs. And even the papers that he realized would ripple and flutter if he drew a hand through them. Optimism faintly emerging, he began to experiment with the rubber band ball. It flinched as he pawed at it. The paperclips in his office divider shuddered as he did the same to them.

_What if?_

His eyes were set on the keyboard, warily examining it. Could he write out something? He looked up at the blank, blackened screen and scowled. _Damn._ He couldn’t type anything if the computer was off. He reclined back, overwhelmed, not even caring that he leaned all the way through the back rest. False hope…another part of the prank.

At least he could still enjoy being there, right?

He really didn’t care.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jones staring directly at his desk. The agent gently shook his head, trying to ignore the empty (from a visual standpoint) place. Neal scowled again, gritting his teeth. That had proved his point all the more— why should he be there if no one knew? It wouldn’t change anything. They wouldn’t be comforted to know that he still was there if they could never find out.

_He_ wouldn’t be comforted to never tell them.

At least Peter hadn’t been there. God only knew how horribly Neal would be upsetted if he had been. He wanted to see Peter, yet it would be too much. He would—

_Wait. Peter…?_

Neal shot up, thoughts speeding through his mind at a million miles an hour; he ran up the stairs to Peter’s office. He knew the chance of being able to use it was slim, but Peter usually left his computer on. As long as he hadn’t turned the monitor off…

The young man slid through the door and almost ran straight into the desk in his hurry. He smacked the air with his hand, dragging it through the mouse. The screen saver vanished, and the home screen appeared in its place. In a trying test of precision, Neal continued to disturb the mouse, bumping it along its pad until the cursor rested on the shortcut to the virtual notepad. He hesitated for a moment: he spied his anklet lying on Peter’s desk. Never had he wished so earnestly that it was back on his person—and _he_ back _in_ his person. Nevertheless, he found the determination to wave his finger with all his might through the left mouse button, a satisfying _click_ resounding. With pride, he did so once again.

The program opened, the spacer blinking against blank white space. He sucked in a deep breath (pretended to, at least), hands quivering. Now he had what he’d been waiting for.

A voice.

~~~ 

Neal took a final look at the lofty government building. It was hard to say goodbye— but at least now he knew he was able to.

He wondered where he’d go from here…maybe just to the edge of New York.

Maybe to the edge of the world.

He’d be back, definitely. But he’d be back when he’d been given time to accept this new life-after-death. He’d be back when everyone was a little bit cheerier. Maybe he’d be able to sneak in another message then.

In a way, it was just a bit liberating: seeing the world without looking over his shoulder. That would be nice for a change. Change…the world _had_ changed. It wasn’t pleasant, but maybe…

…Maybe now he could begin to accept it.

~~~ 

Peter Burke couldn’t place what it was, but something was out of the ordinary in his office. It felt…wrong. Different. He furrowed his brow slightly, observing his workspace. Nothing looked out of place, did it? No…of course not. Everything was as it should have been.

He closed his door behind him, shaking his head at his paranoia. It was just that…well, everything had been different since…

The agent closed his eyes and grimaced. This wasn’t the time. 

He sat down behind his desk, exhaustedly rubbing his face with his hands. He leaned back in his chair and let his hand form to his mouse. The screen saver blinked away, and—

“What the _Hell_ …?”

He couldn’t believe what was in front of his eyes. It could be a prank, he decided, as he read the text on his screen— yet there was something…something about it…

It couldn’t be.

Could it?

He squinted and blinked, rubbed his face again…

Nothing changed. It was all still there, in plain-as-day English.

 

_Peter_

_Sorry for not paying attention to you. I guess you were right to try to keep me behind._

_Tell everyone I miss them and thanks for all the flowers._

_By now I’m out of my radius…guess you won’t be able to track me this time. I’ll visit soon— don’t worry, I won’t haunt anyone. Oh, and I know, you’re probably reading this thinking its fake. I don’t blame you for that...I didn’t think I could still type either._

_Take care of yourself. Thanks for everything._

_Neal Caffrey_


End file.
